NEIL KELLY’S FORTUNE

An Old Tale of Ireland

There was nothing nice or polite about Neil Kelly. He simply told his wife that he was going to the forge to get a ‘doctoring instrument’ and off he went without another word being said. When he arrived at the forge he mumbled a greeting to the blacksmith, who asked him “Where are you heading to today?

” I have come here, for to ask you to make me an instrument for some doctoring I intend to do.”

“Aye, well what type of instrument is it that you want?”

“Make me a ‘crooked knife’ and a ‘white knife’,” replied Neil.

The Smith made these instruments for him in a short period of time and Neil then returned home.

When the next day dawned, Neil Kelly rose up from his bed and prepared himself to be going out as a doctor and went out of the house.  As he walked along the road, Neil met a red-haired lad on the side of the high road. The lad politely saluted Neil Kelly and Neil did likewise in reply. “Where would you be going?” asked the red man.

I am going as far as I can to get me a doctoring job.”

It’s a good trade,” says the red man, “It would be best for you to hire me.”

What wages would be you be looking for?” inquired Neil.

“I suppose half of what we shall earn until we come back to this place again would be right.

“I’ll give you that,” said Neil without hesitation, and with this agreed the two men walked on their way together.

There’s a king’s daughter,” said the red man, “who is close to death. We should go as far as the place in which she rests, and we shall see if we can heal her.

The two men walked on as far as the gate of a strong well-guarded castle, and the porter came to answer their call. He asked them where they were going to, and they said that they had come to look at the king’s daughter they were, to see if they could do her any good. The king, hearing this gave the visitors permission to enter the castle, and they were taken to the place where the girl was lying. The red man went to her and took hold of her wrist to check her pulse, and said that if his master should get the price of his labour he would heal her. The king replied by saying that he would give his master whatever he should award himself. In response, the red man said, “If I could have the room to myself and my master, then he could work better,” and without hesitation, the king said he should have it.

He wanted a little pot of water brought down to him, which he immediately put on the fire to boil. He asked Neil Kelly, “Where is the doctoring instrument?

Here they are,” said Neil, “a crooked knife and a white knife.”

He put the crooked knife on the girl’s neck, and he took her head off her body. Then, he took a green herb out of his pocket and rubbed it into her neck. Not one drop of blood came out of the wound as he took the head and threw it into the pot of water starting to boil on the fire. He boiled it for a while, seized hold of the two ears, and taking it out of the skillet, he struck it down on the neck. The head stuck on the girl’s body as well as it ever was. “How do you feel now,” he asked the girl.

I am as well as ever I was,” said the king’s daughter.

The big man shouted for her father and the king came down to the room. When he saw his daughter, he was totally joyous, and he would not let the visitors go away again for three days. When they were eventually leaving the castle, the king brought down a bag of money and poured it out on the table. He asked Neil Kelly if there was enough there for him. Neil said that there was more than enough and that they would only take half of the amount. But the king wanted them to take the entire amount, and the two men replied, “There is a daughter of another king who is waiting for us to go and look at her.” With that, they bid farewell to the king and went on their way.

They went to look at their new patient and went to the place where she was lying ill. After looking at her in her bed she was healed in the same manner as the previous princess was healed. The king was grateful, and he said that he did not mind how much money Neil should take from him, giving him three-hundred pounds cash, and then they left to go home.

There’s a king’s son in such and such a place,” said the red man, “but we won’t go to him. We will go home with what we have.” They were heading home, with ten heifers that the king had given them, and as they walked homeward, they came upon the place where Neil Kelly had hired the red man.

I think,” said the red man, “that this is the place where I met you the first time.”

I think it is,” replied Neil Kelly, “Friend, how shall we divide the money?

Two halves,” said the red man, “that’s what we agreed.”

I think it is too much to give you half,” said Neil Kelly, “a third is enough for you. It was I who had the ‘crooked knife’ and a ‘white knife’, and you had nothing.”

I won’t take anything,” said the red man, “unless I get half the money.” The two men fell out over the money, and the red man left him.

Neil Kelly was coming closer to his home, driving his share of the cattle. The day became hotter and the cattle began to scamper backwards and forwards in the heat, with Neil Kelly trying his best to control them. When he caught one or two, the rest would be off when he used to bring them back. The horse, which he used to catch the cattle, was tied to the stump of a tree while he continued to try to catch the cattle. But they all got away and he hadn’t a clue as to where they went. Then, when he returned back to the place where he had left his horse and his money, neither the horse nor the money was to be found and he did not know what he should do.

He thought that he should go to the house of the king whose son was ill, and he went head until he came to the king’s castle. He went to look at the boy in the room where he was lying, and he took his pulse. Neil said that he thought he could heal the boy, and the king told him, “If you heal him, I will give you three hundred pounds.”

If I were to get the room to myself, for a little while,” said Neil and the king said that he would have it. He now called down for a small pot of water, which he put on the fire to boil. Then, he took his ‘crooked knife’ and went to take the head off the boy, just as he had seen the red man doing previously. He was sawing at the head, but it did not come away easily, allowing him to cut it off at the neck. The blood was pouring out as he finally took the head off the boy and threw it into the boiling water. He boiled it for a while until he considered that the head had been boiled enough. Neil then tried to get the head out of the pot and managed to get a hold of its two ears. The head fell, in a gurgling mass of flesh, and the two ears came with him. By now the blood was pouring out in great amounts, flowing down the room and seeping out from under the door.

When the king saw that the blood was flowing out from under the door of the room, he knew that his son was dead. He wanted the door opened, but Neil Kelly refused to comply with the king’s orders, and soldiers broke down the door. The young man was dead, and the floor was covered with blood. They seized Neil Kelly, whom they told would hang the next day, and they gathered a company of guards to take him to the place where he was to be executed. They went with him the next day and were walking toward the tree where he should be hanged, and he stopped his screaming. Ahead they saw man stripped and running quickly toward them with a type of mist around him. When he came up to them, the running man cried aloud, “What are you doing to my master?

If this man is your master, you had better deny him, or you’ll get the same treatment,” they warned him.

But it is me who should be suffering, for it me who caused the delay. He sent me for medicine, and I did not come in time. If you free my master, perhaps we can still heal the king’s son.”

They freed Neil and the two men were taken to the king’s house. The red man went to the place where the dead man was, and he quickly began to gather up the bones that were in the small pot. He gathered them all except for the two ears. “What did you do with the ears ?” he asked Neil.

I don’t know,” said Kelly, “I was so frightened.”

The red man finally got the ears and he put them all together. From out of his pocket he took a green herb, which he rubbed around the head. The skin soon covered it again and the hair grew as fine as it had been previously. He put the head in the skillet again and allowed it to boil a while. The red man put the head back on the neck, where it stuck as well as it ever had done, and the king’s son rose up in the bed. “How are you now?” asked the red man.

I am well,” said the king’s son, “but I feel terribly weak.”

The red man shouted again for the king and the king was overjoyed to see his son alive again. They spent that night celebrating and, the next day, when they were going away, the king counted out three hundred pounds. He gave the money to Neil Kelly and told him that, if he had not enough, he would give him more. But Neil said that he had been given enough and that he would not take a penny more. He bade farewell and left his blessing, and struck out, heading straight for home. When they saw that they had reached the place where they had fallen out with one another the red man pointed out, “I think that this is the place where we had our difference.

“It is,” said Neil, and they sat down to divide the money. He gave half to the red man, and he kept another half for himself.

The red man said farewell, and he went. He was walking away for a while, and then went back. ” I am here again,” said the red man, “I had another thought to myself that I would leave all the money with yourself, for you yourself were open-handed. Do you mind the day you were going by past the churchyard, and there were four people there with the body in a coffin? Two of the people were seeking to bury the body, but the dead person owed some debts. The two men who were owed the debts by the dead man were not going to allow the body to be buried. They were arguing, and you were listening to them. Then, you went in and asked how much they were owed by the dead man. The two men said that they each were owed a pound by the body and that they would not let it be buried until the people, who were carrying the coffin, promised to pay at least part of the debts. You said, ‘I have ten shillings, and I’ll give it to you, and let the body be buried.’ You gave them ten shillings, and the corpse was buried. Well, it was I who was in the coffin that day. When I saw you going doctoring, I knew that you would not do the business, and when I saw you in deep trouble, I came to save you. I give you all the money, and you shall not see me again until the last day. Go home now, and don’t do a single day’s doctoring so long as you live. It’s only a short walk now until you get your share of cattle and your horse.” Neil went on towards home, and he didn’t walk far until he came across his share of cattle and his horse, as the red man had said. He took them all home with him. There is not a single day since, that he and his wife do not thrive on their fortune.

The Rat’s Poison

An Odd Case

He had arrived at the spot where the narrow country lane forked, with one lane taking the traveller over by the edge of the old granite quarry and the other lane taking you past the ‘Fairy Tree’. ‘Banjo’ decided that he should rest for a moment, for the late summer sun was shedding its burnt-gold light over the land. The coming of the evening made the shadows lengthen, and a cold breeze had begun to get stronger, causing the blanket wrapped around the load on his shoulders to flap noisily. He lifted this load down from his shoulders and placed it rather gently in the middle of the lane before he reached into the pocket of his jacket to retrieve his cigarettes and ‘Zippo’ lighter. Using his jacket to protect the lighter from the breeze, he lit one of the cigarettes and began to smoke it as he started to consider what he going to do now.

His wife, Bernie, had devised the plan and she had told ‘Banjo’ to take the lane that led to the edge of the old quarry. At the bottom of this quarry, there was a lake of water that had accumulated and was estimated to be at least forty-feet in depth. But as his cigarette burned closer to the filter-tip he had come to a decision about what he should do. ‘Banjo’ flicked the butt away and replaced the load back over his shoulder and took the lane leading past the‘Fairy Tree’. At its beginning, this old country track wound its way uphill and the rain of recent days had caused it to be slippery under-foot. With the weight on his shoulders, he struggled along this pathway, muttering all sorts of curses under his breath, until the track became level again as it passed the old chapel and churchyard of St. Joseph. At this point, he stopped and again took his load from his shoulders.

GraveyardThe final light of evening was beginning to die and small ‘Pipistrelle Bats’ flittered in the air above him and close to the lichen-covered stones of the chapel’s aged walls. He took a moment to himself to scan the hillside, but he could see no person approaching, or hear anything other than the breeze and the flittering of bat-wings. Opening the rusting, iron gate ‘Banjo’ walked slowly into the churchyard and up to a tomb that stood on the east side of the chapel. The stone covering the tomb was itself covered in dark green moss, and the carvings that had once been such an attractive feature had almost vanished through the erosion by wind and rain. Retrieving the blanket-wrapped load that he had been carrying, ‘Banjo’ gently set it on the covering stone and quickly left the churchyard.

When he arrived back home, he found Bernie was waiting there for him. Walking through the front door of the house, ‘Banjo’ went straight into the kitchen and sat down at the table where his wife was already seated. “Is it done?” she asked quietly. “Have you done what I asked you?”

Not exactly,” he replied as he took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. “I decided it would be better to leave him at St. Joseph’s churchyard and he will be found there in the morning when the priest comes to open the place for early Mass. Sure, that gives you plenty of time to make your escape.

Dear God!” she exclaimed in shock and thumped the table heavily with her fists. “Are you really this stupid, or were you born an eejit without a drop of sense in your brain.

Watch your mouth, Bernie. It is not me who has done the stupid thing!

But, what have you done to me? I hate you!” she screamed at ‘Banjo’ and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her loudly. It was only a few moments later when Bernie came out of the bedroom again and she was hurriedly putting on her overcoat. Still making herself ready, Bernie rushed out of the front door of the house and began to make her way toward the nearby village.

‘Banjo’ fed the pig, which was grunting outside the rear door of the cottage, and then he went to gather some turf for the fire. As he disturbed a reek of turf a large black rat jumped out from its shelter among the blocks and scampered away. At the kitchen sink, he washed his hands and began to look around to ensure the kitchen was clean. He need not have worried, for Bernie was a house-proud woman who liked to leave everything clean and tidy. The fire in the stove, however, had almost gone out and his wife had prepared nothing for him to eat. So, stoking up the stove’s fire, ‘Banjo’ found all the food he needed in the cupboards and he began to make himself a decent supper.

After eating his meal, ‘Banjo’ continued to sit at the table and wait for whatever would happen next. One hour went by slowly, followed by another, and then he heard a car speeding up the lane and pulling up outside the front door of the cottage. ‘Banjo’ looked out the side window and saw that a police car had parked and in the back seat was his wife with her head in her hands. He opened the door and gave access to a stoutly built police sergeant and a quite youthful looking constable. They walked into the cottage and made their way to the kitchen table, where ‘Banjo’ was already seated, smoking a cigarette. “Well, sergeant, is my wife going to join us anytime soon? I have made her some food, but it’s gotten cold by now.”

On a white porcelain dinner plate lay a cold fried egg, a small pile of cold chips, and a portion of garden peas. “Bernie has told us everything ‘Banjo’,” the sergeant told him quietly and in a very matter-of-fact way. The sergeant sat down on a chair opposite the one occupied by ‘Banjo’. The young constable then moved toward the kitchen door to block any attempt that ‘Banjo’ might make to escape justice.

Bernie says that you killed Jimmy Shevlin because you were jealous of him. She told us that you bashed him over the head with a turf spade, splitting the poor man’s skull.”

‘Banjo’ took a deep drag of his cigarette and exhaled a large bluish cloud of smoke at the sergeant. “Well, so she has told you a story and I suppose there is no point in trying to tell you what really happened?” asked ‘Banjo’. “Will my word be any good against a good-looking woman like her? I could tell you that she and Jimmy were having an affair, but he had had enough and was ready to leave her. Bernie, however, was not ready to call it a day and lost her mind. When I arrived home, poor Jimmy was lying on the floor, just over there.”‘Banjo’ pointed directly at the spot, which was close to the feet of the young constable, who, somewhat surprised by this, he chose to take a hurried step back from the crime scene.

Ah, sure, don’t be afraid son,”‘Banjo’ smiled at the constable, “Bernie always cleans up well after her.

But it was you who took the corpse,” said the police sergeant.

Yes, I did take away the corpse. She wanted me to dump it into the old quarry, where it would never be found. But that was not the right thing to do, because I thought his family would need to have closure and the body of a beloved son to bury. When Bernie realised that the body would be found, however, she ran like a scalded cat to your police station in the village. She wanted to get her story on the record first and I, her fool of a husband, is seen by everyone as the guilty person.”

Bernie says that she was going to leave you for Jimmy, and you completely lost your head,” the sergeant told him. “In my experience, it is not in the nature of a woman to take such violent action against a man. So, I think it’s time you got your jacket on and we will all go back to the police station.

In the clothes of a remand prisoner and handcuffed to a prison guard, Banjo’s appearance to hear the charges against him was televised on the national news. Meanwhile, Bernie sat at home and watched her husband being led into the courthouse. But, as she watched her television, she felt something trickle from her nose, and a drop of blood splashed upon the vinyl table-cloth. Taking a tissue, she went to the nearest mirror and proceeded to clean the blood from her nose. She could, however, taste the blood in her mouth by this time and she spat out a deep-red coloured saliva into the tissue.

Bernie’s body began to weaken further as the day passed until she eventually had to take to her bed. Her mother rang for the doctor to come and when he arrived, sometime later, he found Bernie pale and virtually unconscious. The doctor knew immediately that nothing could be done for the woman and arrangements were quickly made.

The next morning the sergeant was called to the cottage, but word of Bernie’s sudden death had already spread through the parish. The doctor and the sergeant sat in the kitchen and began to discuss what might have caused Bernie’s death. “I think this was poison,” the doctor revealed quietly.

Self-administered or not?

The doctor simply shrugged his shoulders and explained, “Well, it wasn’t taken recently, for Rat poison takes a long time to kill someone. A week, even two weeks would be required. If ‘Banjo’ did kill Jimmy Shevlin, then he might have thought to himself that he should get both at the same time.”

The sergeant shook his head, “If he had tried to shove that stuff down her throat, she would certainly have told me.

But he wouldn’t have needed to force her to take it,” the doctor pointed out. “That stuff is easily dissolved in tea and it is sweet to the taste. I tell you, sergeant, my money is on ‘Banjo’ doing the job, but you will have the devil of a job proving it. Bernie was a very house-proud woman and has probably cleaned this kitchen every day since ‘Banjo’ has been gone.

’Banjo’ was smiling that first time we interviewed him, and, by God, he could be smiling again, very soon,” sighed the sergeant.

The Poteen Makers

A Tale of the Royal Irish Constabulary

There have been many tales about, before and during the ‘War for Independence’ and the opinion of the force held by many of Ireland’s working-class was not exactly flattering. It was often said that the most obviously conspicuous individual in Ireland, prior to the ‘War for Independence’  was the policeman. People would say that wherever you went if the policeman was not there before you, it was because they had just been there and would be back before you decided to leave. In all of Ireland’s large cities and towns – Dublin, Cork, Limerick, Athlone, Belfast, etc., there was a police constable to be seen at every street corner, singly, in pairs, and in groups.

You could recognise the fresh-looking police who were about to start their shift, while the tired-looking police were going home to recuperate. You would have seen groups of clean, well-brushed police moving into the countryside by horse or by truck, after having heard reports of rural disturbances, while mud-covered police would be seen returning on carts or trucks, with prisoners from the nearest eviction, land dispute, or faction fight. Much like the policemen of today there were young men, with fresh, rosy complexion, and the middle-aged policemen, with wizened, stern faces, that often showed strong evidence of the many fights that they had taken part in, while the old policemen, with their deeply scarred and weather-beaten faces, paid little attention to what was going on around them becausethey were looking forward to a speedy retirement with a moderate pension. Allexamples of these were to be seen in each city, town, and village. In the ruralareas they could be found on every high road, by-way, and on the many narrow mountainpaths. Meanwhile, at every railroad station in the country they would be seenin pairs, keeping a close watch on those who arrived and departed, and taking noteson anything that may have appeared to be suspicious in the way travellers weredressed or acted.

Should a stranger adhere to the common, well-travelled tourist routes through the country he would only receive a sharp glance of inspection from the policeman. But, should a stranger leave those well-trodden paths usually followed by travellers, or make their way into parts of the country that were not often visited by strangers, you can be sure that they quite quickly became an object of intense interest and suspicion. But, should something cause even the slightest distrust of you or your business to enter the mind of the policeman, you are immediately a marked man. He will disappear for a few moments, allowing you to proceed on your journey. You might, by chance, look back and catch a glimpse of him, a mile or two away, peeping over a wall after you. In the next village, however, when you decide to stop for the night, that same policeman will reappear and, alongside the local policemen, after his coming, will be sure to watch your every move with great attention. If, for example, you would leave yourbags in the reception area of an inn and go outside for a while, the policemanwill come in to get your name, takes note of any bags you have and checks anyhotel or railway tags that may remain on your bags.

Not all these policemen were stupid because there were detectives that knew their job well and roamed both rural and urban areas of the country. This clever man can, at a glance, recognise foreign articles that a person may have and know from where they came. He will engage you in pleasant conversation, chatting about the weather, the crops, business news, and local tittle-tattle. All the while he is trying to discover just who you are, where you come from, and what is your business in that place. As you converse with him, the detective scans every inch of your body from head to feet, so he is better able to give his superiors an accurate report on your clothing and appearance. “Hat, English; coat, London-made; trousers, doubtful; shoes, American; party evidently an Irish Yankee, who might as well be looked after.

You would have learned that the majority of ‘pre-Independence’ Irish policeman, was usually the son of peasant stock. For a man who wanted something better in life than being a labourer, or a tenant, there were few options open. He could, of course, choose to emigrate to America, or enlist in the ranks of the British army, or apply for a place on the constabulary. Although emigration was, probably, the most acceptable option to such young men, many of them lacked the money to go. This left him with two courses, of which enlistment in the army was the more pleasing option since within Ireland the police are almost entirely ostracised by the people and they are left with little hope of being able to socially associate with others in the local community. Sadly, the plight of the people engendered within them a belief that any Irishman who enters the police has deserted his country’s cause and has entered the service of Ireland’sdeadliest foe. A policeman, therefore, soon found himself being avoided by his former companions, shunned by his old friends, and, just as importantly, being given the cold shoulder by the local ladies.

Undoubtedly, any Irishman who enlisted in the British army in those days would have been treated in the same way at his old home. The only saving grace for the Irish soldier was that at enlistment he usually left Ireland with no intention of returning, which makes his case materially different from that of the police recruit. So, why would a young man choose the police as a career at this time? There may have been the obligation of a son to support aged parents or to be the financial support of a family of young brothers and sisters. Such things as these often determined his choice to enter the police force, where he would become a ‘social leper’, who was hated by his countrymen with a hatred that knew no bounds. From the first day he put on his neat blue uniform and saucer-like cap, the R.I.C. constable, in the troubled Irish counties in the west carried his life in his hand. Every hedge had to be scrutinised carefully because, behind it, there might be an assassin lying in wait. Every division wall was watched for suspicious indications of an enemy’s presence, his alertness being concentrated by the knowledge that he is protecting his ownlife.

The policeman is compelled, by the instructions of his superiors, to undertake duties that he feels are obnoxious and very much against his own sense of justice. Moreover, he is forced to risk his life and limbs to carry out these repugnant orders. Consider when a bad year comes, causing a tenant to fall into arrears and cannot pay his rent. In such cases, it was common for the landlord’s agent to decide on evicting the defaulting tenant and he normally sent for the police as back-up. The constables would arrive in force, but the tenant had anticipated their arrival and had collected a crowd of his friends to assist him. The hut was closed and barred, while inside there were normally ten or more men and women, who were determined to resist the eviction for as long as it was of any use. Then, as soon as the police appeared at the scene, a loud cacophony of Irish voices would begin, hurling fearful curses and insults at those trying to carry out the eviction, immediately succeeded by showers of stones and rocks being thrown by those supporters of the cabin’s defenders. The police would draw their clubs and rush at the objectors, striking right and left at the heads of the gathered crowd. Unsurprisingly, a desperate battle would soon ensue, in which the police were usually victorious, and succeeded in driving the shouting rabble to a safe distance from the cottage. When this was achieved, the police would leave some of the force to keep them away, while the remaining policemen would return to force a way into the besieged cabin. A beam, handled by several pairs of strong arms, would be erected and would speedily demolish the miserable pretence of a door. Once this entrance was achieved the police would go into the cabin and were quickly met with fists, clubs, stones, showers of boiling water, and other effective and offensive means of defence. And yet, after a stubborn contest, the cabin was finally cleared of its defenders and the furniture, ifthere was any, was set out on the road. Thereafter, the thatched roof wouldhave been torn off and scattered on the ground, the walls levelled, and thepolice, battered with sticks and stones, scalded, burned, would return toheadquarters with their prisoners in tow. On many of these occasions apoliceman was killed, and his killers would often defend themselves by statingthat it was entirely the fault of the policeman. In a court near Limerick the defendantsof one such incident stated, “We neverintended for to kill him at all, but his skull was too thin entirely for aconstable and broke with the beating he was after getting.”

Firearms were not often used in these encounters between the police and the ordinary people of the district, for such battles always took place in daylight. But, when an eviction promised to be of more dangerous than usual, the police would carry rifles, with strict orders given that they were not to use them except in a dire emergency. There were, therefore, instances when a policeman was beaten almost to death without resorting to the use of his gun. During their ordinary day-duty, the police carried only a short club or revolver, which was hidden under his coat. But at night, the country constables were armed with rifle and bayonet, and they would patrol the roads in pairs, with one walking on each side and as close as possible to the hedge or wall.

It was said at this time that despite the extraordinary difficulties and unceasing dangers of their work the Royal Irish Constabulary continued to follow their orders scrupulously. The record of the time does suggest that any instances of treachery to the government among the constabulary were few and far between. Furthermore, there were plenty of men who sought service in the police force with applicants far outmatching vacancies. The force’s physical standard for applicants was so high, in fact, that they were often hand-picked men from the rural areas of Ireland, whose average grade of intelligence was at a higher standard than that existing among the ordinary Irish peasantry, from among whom they were chosen.

                            A Captured Still

It was noticeable that the police would take on any service cheerfully, without much concern for how hard or perilous that work maybe. But, there was one task which the police force in the western counties hated to undertake, which was any mission that would take them into the mountains to seize illicit stills and arrest distillers of poteen. These expeditions usually meant days and nights of hard climbing, watching, waiting, and spying on suspects. Quite often these efforts would gain no result, because when the spot where the still has been was surrounded, with the police thinking they have the lawbreakers in their trap, the ‘poteen men’ would discover the police plan and escape along some path unknown to the lawmen. Behind them would be left nothing but “the pot and the smell” as signs that they were there and what they were doing. Disappointing results were a good reason for policemen to dislike the duty, but a more important reason was the unusual degree of danger that attended such expeditions. In the mountains of Donegal, Mayo, Galway, Clare, and Kerry, the illicit distillers usually owned firearms and are well practised in their use. Moreover, these men felt no more compunction for shooting a policeman than for killing adog.

The extremely rugged character of the Mayo mountains offered the illicit poteen makers many opportunities to practise their craft in safety and secrecy. The entire neighbourhood would be on the lookout for the presence of police, and there were always friends able to give the alarm to the distillers. Once an alarm was received they would hide the still in the ground, or in a convenient cave, which usually took them just a few minutes. Once their equipment was safely hidden, the distillers would immediately take up their weapons and turn their attention to shooting at the police from well-camouflaged positions. The entire enterprise provided the distillers with so little risk to themselves and so much discomfort to the constables that the latter frequently gave up thechase on the very slightest of provocations.

Close to Derryclare Lough, which lies in the Connemara National Park, and almost under the shadow of the Twelve Pins, there stands by the side of an arrow road a small crudely-made monument of uncut stones, on top of which stands a rough wooden cross. Such heaps of stones are common along Ireland’s west coast, and they customarily mark a family memorial. It begins with each family member and each friend who attends the funeral placing a stone upon the crude monument. In some parts of the country every relative and friend who subsequently passes that spot places a stone on the common pile, and by doing so cause the heap to constantly grow. The monument that I mention is no different in any respect from many others in the Connemara area. But before this monument, in the summer of 1886, an old peasant woman knelt there all day long. Regularly, every morning she would come to this place from her cabin in a nearby glen and spend every daylight hour there in prayer before the wooden cross. It did not seem to matter to this old woman if the sun shone, or the rain poured from the skies. When the sun shone, the hood on her tattered cloak would be thrown back to expose her white hair, but the rain forced her to draw the hood forward as shelter. Whether it rained, or the sun shone, however, that old woman was always there, with her lips silently moving in prayer as the beads slipped through her withered fingers. So engrossed was she that no voice and no question could divert her from her devotions. She never looked up, nor did she ever take the slightest notice of any remarks that were addressed to her, and she was never heard to speak aloud. One day every week groceries were sent to her cabin from the nearest police station and were left within. The men who brought these provisions would then depart immediately, for this old woman never gave them any word of thanks or any expression of any gratitude she felt. Although this ritual had been happening for many years, the constables, who had been sent to deliver the allowance made to her by the government, never tried to compel her to speak to them.

The old woman’s story was first recorded by a Sergeant of Police and provides the reader with a painful illustration of the poteen trade in the mountains of the west. In the year 1850, while the country was still suffering from the effects of the “Great Hunger,” she lived with her husband, Michael Murray, and their four sons, on a little farm near Derryclare Lough. Year after year the crops had failed them, but the little family had held together, starving and foraging faring to keep themselves alive. In 1850, although the country was generally beginning to recover from the famine, this part of Connemara was still suffering, and it seemed likely that the crop would fail again, bringingthe evils of starvation and disease face to face with this hapless family.

The four boys were all well-grown boys, who were accustomed to the hard life of the Irish peasantry, and they were willing to work if any could be found for them. All four sons left their home, the eldest went to Galway, while the other three went to the sea-shore, where they found temporary employment in the fisheries. While they worked away from home, these three brothers learned the secrets of the illicit distiller, and after gathering enough money to buy a small still, they returned home with it. The home-place was, fortunately, sited in a secluded quarter of a district that was rarely visited and they managed to persuade the old man to join in the illicit distilling business with them. The risk of detection by law officers appeared so small in those days, especially when compared with the profits that could be gained, that against the prayers and entreaties of the woman, the small still was established in a nearby hollow and the manufacture of the poteen began in the largest quantities that their limited resources would allow them. But, over the next number of years, their product found a ready outlet in the neighbourhood, and the O’Malley family prospered beyond their dreams. The three sons were all married to local women, and their families grew up strong and healthy around them.

The eldest brother, John O’Malley, had made his way to Galway City, and by a great stroke of good fortune, he succeeded in obtaining a place in the Royal Irish Constabulary. At the home-place, John’s family knew nothing of what had happened, for he did not communicate with them in any shape or form. Directly after he had enlisted he was sent to County Wexford, which lies on the opposite side of the island, and caused him to almost forget his old home and the life he had lived there with his brothers. But, because he proved himself to be both intelligent and capable, John was rapidly promoted to the rank of sergeant and was ordered to County Galway. Almost as soon as he arrived in his new post at the barracks in a small village in Connemara, police informers brought intelligence about an illicit still that was working in a place near the TwelvePins. O’Malley was immediately ordered to set out with a strong party of police to seize the still, and, if possible, arrest the criminals running the operation. The names of the offenders were not given by the informers, but the location of the glen, where operations were being carried, out was described with such precision that O’Malley, who knew every foot of ground in the area, drafted plans for an operation that would make it practically impossible for the illicit still workers to escape the police.

As planned, before dark one evening, a party of twelve mounted policemen armed with rifles started out from Maum, which sat at the head of Lough Corrib. They travelled all night, and by morning Sergeant O’Malley had positioned his men around the glen that the arrest of the criminals looked to be a certainty. In the dim light of early dawn, before any objects could be distinctly seen, several men were seen entering the glen, and, at a given signal from O’Malley, the police rapidly closed in on the little shanty where the still was operating. A desperate fight ensued between the two groups, and SergeantO’Malley was shot dead by one of his brothers without even knowing whose hand had pointed the weapon. Two of the O’Malley brothers were killed by the police bullets, and a constable was mortally wounded. Michael and his remaining son were taken alive by the police and were subsequently tried for murder. It was only when the charges were read out against them that they learned, for the first time, that the dead Sergeant was their own son and brother.

The raid and the casualties of the fire-fight attracted wide attention in the country and both men were hanged. Mrs O’Malley was totally devastated by the entire action, which, with a single blow, had deprived her of a husband and her four sons. For several months afterwards, she was driven almost insane by the memory of that day, but the anger soon passed away. Then, as her clouded brain became calm and clear, it became occupied with one idea, to the exclusion of all others, namely prayer for the happy repose of her dead husband and sons. While the body of the Sergeant was buried near Maum, O’Malley and his three sons were buried together under the cairn in a long disused churchyard, through which the road passed. It was a churchyard like thousands more in Ireland, where the grave-stones are hidden by overgrown nettles and weeds. There, with a love stronger than death, that poor old woman went every day, and, untiring in her devotion, she spent the rest of her life reciting the prayers for the dead.